


Shock Therapy

by orphan_account



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Asylums, Breaking Out, Burton's asylum specifically, Crying, Depression, F/M, Flashbacks, Gay Romance, Gore, HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS, Major character death - Freeform, Murder, Original work - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Romance, Sadness, Self Harm, Serious mental issues, Slow Build, Snotty teenagers, and hugging, backstories, i'm not sure, m/m - Freeform, maybe there will be smut, there will be kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't remember the way peanut butter melts over warm toast, or how Kool-Aid powder dissolves in cold water. I can't recall the colors of Autumn; I've forgotten the pleasant talking of a family eating dinner together. I don't know what it's like to cry over sad movies, the feeling of dabbing my eyes with soft tissue. I've wish I knew how to dive into a pool, challenging friends to swimming races. My sock has never slid off my heel and given me an uncomfortable feeling while walking. I don't know the joy of jumping in puddles; smiling, leaping, laughing. A mother's harsh words due to muddy boots. The sun on my skin. Letting snow fall on my tongue. I can't remember. </p><p>You must not know what it's like to not remember. </p><p>You must not know what it's like to be kept in confinement. You must not understand to terror of what tomorrow may bring, when all around you death and sorrow leaks from every white, padded wall. You must not carry the burden of having every comfort held far from your fingertips: a pillow to lay your head on, a refrigerator to peer into, or even a loved one. These things are especially far when your fingertips are being held down by a straight jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I don't remember

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is a story I've been looking forward to continuing for a long time. I uploaded the first three chapters on Quotev a while back, but school and homework kind of took up all my time. Anyway, I'm going to try really hard to keep this story going; it's probably one of the best I've ever written. (Yes, this is an original work.) Share with your friends! Leave Kudos! Hope you like it!

I don't remember the way peanut butter melts over warm toast, or how Kool-Aid powder dissolves in cold water. I can't recall the colors of Autumn; I've forgotten the pleasant talking of a family eating dinner together. I don't know what it's like to cry over sad movies, the feeling of dabbing my eyes with soft tissue. I've wish I knew how to dive into a pool, challenging friends to swimming races. My sock has never slid off my heel and given me an uncomfortable feeling while walking. I don't know the joy of jumping in puddles; smiling, leaping, laughing. A mother's harsh words due to muddy boots. The sun on my skin. Letting snow fall on my tongue. I can't remember. 

You must not know what it's like to not remember. 

You must not know what it's like to be kept in confinement. You must not understand to terror of what tomorrow may bring, when all around you death and sorrow leaks from every white, padded wall. You must not carry the burden of having every comfort held far from your fingertips: a pillow to lay your head on, a refrigerator to peer into, or even a loved one. These things are especially far when your fingertips are being held down by a straight jacket.

No one's ever loved me. I've always been, "different," or as the doctors like to call me, "mental." Some even say they cannot find a word to describe a person like me. I've been told that there is a way out; out of these small hallways. As long as I'm good for a very long, long time, I won't have to be here anymore, but that will never happen. If I get out of this dump, I'll go to prison for what I did to that girl with hazel eyes. 

I want to go where the doctors and nurses go when their shifts end. I want to do what they do, to be a common person, to drink coffee from cracked mugs. 

But the only way out of here is suicide.

My thoughts are interrupted when, out of no where, either side of my straight-jacketed body is hoisted up to its feet. Huh. When did they come in? I must have been deep in thought.

I blandly look to my new visitors: solemn faces, white, button-up outfits, sterilizing syringes and tazors buried in their lumpy pockets, out of reach from incapable hands. One man has dark, brown hair and blue eyes, the other has a blond buzz-cut and sunken cheeks. The brunette types some buttons into a keypad outside my door and closes it with a reassuring click.

I read their name tags, my green eyes shifting from each chest quickly before I'm practically dragged down the hall, outside of my room. The brunette is named Anthony; the blond, Adam. How indifferent. 

I don't make any struggling efforts to remove myself from their grasp as the two heavy men easily carry my small body to a room I know I'm bound to end up for the thousandth time.

When I first came here, I would cry and scream, shrieking with the pain of the men's grasp as they gripped my arms so hard they left bruises. However, nothing ever prepared me for the "therapy" that was told to come after: shock therapy. A horrible, brain-melting, painful process. Still, I was just a child then.

After a month or two, I got used to the head-frying electricity and the tight restraints bound around my wrists, forcing me to stay in place as my very insides melted from the heat. 

"Adam Leonard." The blond man firmly states into a little microphone outside a metal door, locked a hundred different ways. A familiar beep chirps after his voice fades off and the clacking of locks unbolting echoes down the empty hallway. 

"Voice recognized." A woman's monotone reply says, the door opening with a devious swish, sending shivers down my spine. I'm pulled into the small room I so badly want to forget, despite how used to it I am. I expect a mint green chair like a dentist's, (except this dentist would have to be very sick to keep leather straps where the ankles, wrists, and waist go) white-tiled walls, a faded brown stain on the floor, and a computer on the left of the chair that doctors use to operate on. I was surprised to see that those things weren't there. 

Instead, the walls are positively covered in framed pictures of animals dressed in disco costumes, the floor hardwood and smooth enough to skate on. The room itself is quite warm compared to the cold, clammy atmosphere of our cells. What strikes me though, isn't the purple and pink polka-dotted grandfather clock in the corner, or the window positioned on the left wall, giving me my first glimpse of faint daylight in weeks, but the fact that the room looks like an office. 

"Chris Yankee." A voice spoke out before I could register the distinct display of brightness and sunflowers sitting on a yellow shelf. What the hell was this place? Where was the shock machines that had tortured me for so long? Where were the men in masks?

I turned my head to the speaker.

That's when my world changes.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Chris Yankee." A man in purple business suit smiles at me with radiant, shocking white teeth. His tie has tiny, gray cats with a pink pastries as a body, farting rainbows through space. His hair is dyed purple to match his suit, his green eyes glimmering with the toasty sunlight blanketing the eccentric, err, office, whatever the hell this place is.

I don't say anything, scowling at the hippie who won't stop smiling with his freaking straight, white teeth. He eventually breaks the silence with, "You know, when someone addresses you, it's considered polite to respond." His voice reminds me of sugar, sweet and mellow.

"Yea, well," I snap, "You don't exactly expect people to be polite in a mental hospital."

"Touchy," the man simply laughs. He turns over a nameplate, clears his throat, and bends down below his desk, the sound of a drawing opening. I read the nameplate: Zeppelin Smith.

It takes a minute for "Zeppelin" to shuffle around in some papers, the crown of his eggplant-colored head visible. Anthony and Adam's tight grip on my arms becomes numb, the handcuffs around my wrists tugging my hands down with their heavy iron material. It's fine, though, this kind of irritation is immeasurable to some of the other things I've been through. That fact doesn't stop me from becoming annoyed. I keep my jaw clammed shut.

"Aha!" Smith seems to finally have found what he's been searching for, popping up cheerfully and opening a tarnished, yellow folder. I recognize my name at the top, the ink smeared with what looks like a teardrop. He neatly sets it on his desk and flips the cover, my picture presenting the front. He looks to the picture to me.

"A bit outdated in my opinion, love." He smiles handsomely and shows it to us.

It's true; that picture must have been taken years ago. I see myself as I was when I first arrived here: youthful, fearful expression, shaggy, brown hair, and freckles dotting my pale cheeks. My eyes, blue and bloodshot, are watering. My lips are tight and chapped. My hands hold a black placard with my name and date of birth on the front in an iron grip, bony little fingers vised so hard they might break. I look away from the picture.

I hear a tsk and another page flip. "Yankee, Chris." He says clearly, "Born on October 26, 1994. Accused of murdering his neighbor, Sequoia Sarvis, age sixteen, in 2003..." He looks up at me with a mocking smirk. "Admitted to Burton's Asylum due to reasons of insanity. Quite a story you have here."

"Shut up." I growl, staring at him in his laughing, green eyes. I just want to know what the hell is going on. Why is my room of torture set up like it's expecting party guests any minute? Who the fudge is this guy? What does he want?

"Don't be so irritable, for Heaven's sake!" The hippie scolds playfully, standing up and walking directly at me.

Adam, who I forgot was even there, pipes up with, "Sir, I wouldn't-"

But he's cut off.

"Don't be silly!" Hippie laughs, inches from my face. At a closer look, he seems to be about my age, maybe a bit older, but definitely young. I glare at him fiercely, ready to scream and kick if he pulls anything, like it would help.

Adam decides to butt in again, "Highly aggressive-"

"I'm sure there's a puppy in there somewhere." Smith smiles.

"He's not-"

"You have a good hold on him."

"He could still bite!"

"Then you really aren't doing your job very well!"

"SHUT UP!" I groan, looking away from the green eyes as they flicker to my pale, freckled face. "I'm not an animal." I glance back at the hippie, adding on, "But don't touch me."

Smith smiles that handsome, hygienic smile.

The corners of my mouth twitch upward just a tiny bit.

"Gentleman," Smith addresses Adam and Anthony, "would you like to give myself and my lovely guest here a little time to chat?"

The two men open their mouths, but not before Smith can add, "Alone?"

Anthony seems to want to argue, but by the look on Smith's face, it's really no use. The next thing I know, I'm being handcuffed to the chair, wrists and ankles shackled down. The door closes with a click behind me, Smith smiling and folding his hands as he smiles faintly, staring at me creepily for a few seconds. This time, I break the silence.

"What the hell do you want?" I say defensively. I'm used to being helpless like this, my hands and feet tied down to the point I can't do anything but sit, but I don't like it. My skin is tough around my wrists and ankles from repeatedly being rubbed raw by handcuffs, my arms immune to the soreness of having them crossed by a straight jacket daily. I don't hurt myself. They know that, but the staff here insists on torturing the patients here like bags of dirt.

Smith leans a bit too close to me then I would like. He seems to be relishing in the fact I can't do anything but stare at him. "I need something from you." He says smoothly, his voice lingering in the air. I scowl.

"Then why are you dragging it on? Get to it, already." I murmur, looking to my lap. He looks at me affectionately, maybe even a little sympathetic. He stands up swiftly and stalks over to his window, pulling the floral curtains apart, sunlight burning into the room.

"There!" He chirps. "It was getting a little gloomy in here."


	2. Seqouia

RECAP FROM LAST CHAPTER

"I need something from you."　He says smoothly, his voice lingering in the air. I scowl.

"Then why are you dragging it on? Get to it, already." I murmur, looking to my lap. He looks at me affectionately, maybe even a little sympathetic. He stands up swiftly and stalks over to his window, pulling the floral curtains apart, sunlight burning into the room.

"There!" He chirps. "It was getting a little gloomy in here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

....

I stare at Smith, annoyed. Can he just tell me what's going on, or is he going to continue to torture me? The damage I could do if I was out of these handcuffs...

Smith turns to me, tilting his head in a thoughtful way. "You know," he says gently, "I would expect someone who killed their neighbor to be more wild. You're awfully calm for someone in a 'incurably insane' asylum, Yankee..."

"You just said it yourself there was a puppy inside of me." I murmur, pulling against the restraints feebly. I don't expect to get out. I just want him to feel intimidated. He notices my weak struggling, green eyes laughing.

"I don't believe I've properly introduced myself." He says calmly, sitting back on his cushiony　chair. I scowl sinisterly.

"I don't care who you are."

"I don't believe you."

"Yea, well."

"Tell me, Chris, was it?" Smith smiles his handsome smile again, expression livid with sweetness. I don't believe it for a second. "What's you side of the story? You know, to that girl's death all those years ago?"

I think back on it, flashes of memories peppering my mind. I was young, around nine years old. Realty begins to fade away as my mind revisits the past.

~~2003~~

She was my sister's friend, a sophomore in High School. If I'm correct, she had long, curly hair and tan skin like light iced coffee, freckles dotting her face here and there. A skinny girl whom wore dresses daily, usually laced. Hazel eyes.

"Sequoia!" My sister, Savannah, a hipster with dyed red hair, laughs from the other room. I hear muffled giggling and several whacks. Obviously having another girly pillow fight.. I think as I scribble on some old paper I managed to find under my father's office supplies. I pick up a red, coloring in the shirt of my favorite superhero ever. I made him up and he saves kids from eating their vegetables, but also, he saves damsels in distress because he's a real good guy! I call him Super-junkie because he's a junkie. My mom thinks that's "cute" or whatever. But Sequoia doesn't like them. She makes it really obvious.

Sequoia has never been nice to me. She's always been mean. Savannah still likes her, though. I don't know why; isn't she supposed to stand up for me?

Every time Sequoia comes over, she teases me. She calls me, "fat" behind my mom's back. She doesn't bother being nice to me in front of Savannah. Savannah doesn't care. She even pinches me when no one's looking. I call her a little goblin because of this, even though she's very bigger than me.

But that's not the worst of it. Sequoia is always treating me like a little kid, even though I'm almost ten. I can take care of myself, but when I walked in on her and Savannah talking about their preg-ant friend, she told me to go away because I was too little to hear.

Stupid. I know what a preg-ant is. It's when a woman eats a watermelon seed and a baby grows in her tummy.

I'm not little.

But worst of all, she calls me very mean things, and I'm not just talking about "fat." She says I act too much like a girl. When I play with Savannah's old Barbie dolls, she glares at me and says stuff like, "he's going to grow up to be a faggot." I don't even know what a faggot is. Savannah doesn't even tell me, but I think it means something very bad.

I don't like Sequoia, not one bit, but my sister likes her, so I have to do what my mom says and, "live with it."

I scribble a messy clump of brown on top of Super-Junkie's head, setting down my picture. There, it's all done! I would go show Savannah, but Sequoia would make fun of it, so I decide to go show mom instead.

I pad downstairs, my picture in hand. This is my best work yet. I forget all about Sequoia as I call out my mom's name. "MOM!" I shout, looking around for my mother. No response. She must be in the backyard, so I open the sliding glass door.

Before I can take a step outside, I feel my wrist being grabbed, my paper being ripped from my small hands. My eyes instantly water at the paper cut being edged in my palm from the slip, grabbing my wounded hand and whipping around to face my attacker. Of course, it's my terrorizer, Sequoia.

"What is this?" She sneers, holding up the picture to study my work of art. Only, she doesn't seem to like it. She even appears to hate it.

"W-Where's Savannah?" I ask, ignoring her question. Sequoia only glances up at me with a roll of her eyes.

"Don't push into other people's business so much. She's in her room."

I didn't care about where Savannah was anymore. I just want my picture back. Bravely, I stare with a determined expression and hold my hands up. "Give it back!" I cry. Sequoia cackles with a hideous laugh, pinching the top with both fingers and rips slightly. My eyes widen instantly at the sight.

"Hey! N-No!"

"Ew, what's this?" Sequoia shrieks, examining the picture closer. "Is this... two guys kissing? Chris!"

"Super-Junkie saved him!" I quickly explain, trying to make her understand. "They're in love!"

Sequoia gives me a dreadful sneer, and before I know it, she's torn the paper in half with a sickening tearing sound. I begin to blubber with tears, yanking the two halves off the ground where she let them fall like garbage. I scoop them up in my arms, bolting to the tape dispenser. Sequoia simply rolls her eyes and starts to walk away, but I don't notice.

Ding dong.

My head whips toward the direction of our front door, little feet taking off before I can register it. "MOM!" I cry, tears running down my face as I whip open the door. I blink. "W-Who are you?"

Two cops, both looking very, very sad, stand above me with their hands folded politely. I don't say anything, waiting for them to speak. Finally, one says, "Is your father home?"

"No... he left for work," I quickly add, "sir."

The two cops look at each other with a sad expression and frown. Why do they look so upset? Did I do something wrong? Wait, this is the perfect chance for me to tell them about Sequoia! They'll arrest her for sure for being mean! I know, because mom says that's what happens when bad guys be mean to people like me. But before I can open up my mouth, Savannah has trotted down the steps, Sequoia on tail.

"Chris! Mom told us not the answer the door when her and dad aren't home!" She looks a little worried as she looks toward our visitors, her curiosity and fear growing immensely. "Wait, what are they doing here?"

Sequoia crosses her arms and looks away, obviously wanting nothing to do with whatever is happening. The two cops stare at Savannah before asking to come inside. She agrees, the door shutting behind them as they wait for the two girls to walk in front of them. "Good evening. I am Officer Brown, and this is my partner, Officer Doess."

A few seconds pause. None of us say anything. Then, it hits us.

"I regret to inform you that your mother was involved in a fatal car accident. She didn't survive."


	3. No one left to love

RECAP

Two cops, both looking very, very sad, stand above me with their hands folded politely. I don't say anything, waiting for them to speak. Finally, one says, "Good evening. I am Officer Brown, and this is my partner, Officer Doess."

A few seconds pause. None of us say anything. Then, it hits us.

"I regret to inform you that your mother was involved in a fatal car accident. She didn't survive."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

　

I can't do anything but stand there, my boyish body going numb from my fingers to my toes, my mind buzzing with static you hear on broken T.V's.

I didn't even know she left.

Why didn't she say goodbye?

A horrendous　sobbing, screaming sound floods my ears behind me. Savannah has dropped to her knees, her face in her hands, weeping hysterically. The next few minutes are hazy. Unhelpful comfort from the police officers. Sequoia grabbing her bag and pacing out the door,　here one minute, gone the next. My father coming through the front door with an alarmed expression, asking what's going on. He hears the truth, and he too, drops to his knees.

The next thing I know, little feet are padding up the stairs faster than the speed of sound, my bedroom door whipping open　with little hands. My little hands, my little tears, dripping down on my little palms. Everything is little about me. Why couldn't I do something to stop it? Stop my mom, whose cared for me since birth, from dying?

Then the anger hits. The rage. The fury. Little feet are bolting around the room. Little hands are shredding pictures one by one. Pieces of crayon art fall to the ground. A year of plastering my walls with my own imagination is destroyed. Pictures of Super-Junkie, my dog, Spot, my sister, my daddy, my mom... I had drawn her with yellow hair, right above her shoulders, where it had always been. She never wanted it to change.. I tape the two halves back together, carefully putting it back on my wall.

How could she be gone?

Just an hour ago, I was listening to Savannah and Sequoia watch TV. Everything was the same. They were watching a ghost story, I think. And my mom was in the kitchen, chopping up carrots for dinner. I blink my soggy eyes, a new memory flashing into my mind.

I remember Sequoia complaining about how we didn't have any ice-cream. My mom, my poor mom, was the one who agreed to go get some for them. How could I have been so stupid to forget? That's why she was gone! That's why..

I blink again, the pieces of the puzzle forming together in my mind. Fury fills my eyes again, my little hands balling into fists. Sequoia! She was the reason my mom was dead! She was the one who made her go to the store!

She was the reason.

And she was going to pay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Chris?"

My mind jolts back into reality. I realize my surroundings. I'm back in the weird, eccentric office of Zeppelin Smith. 　

My throat feels flooded with mucus, my words coming out raspy before I can clear my throat. "What? I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Smith looks are me with a confused look, like I'm weird or something, which is rich coming from a man who decorates his walls with dogs in sparkly clothes.

"I said," he repeats calmly, "If you remembered what you did to the girl to land you in here."

I look to his office desk, rubbing the tip of my foot in a V shape across the floor repeatedly. Smith continues to look at me funny. I decide not to say anything. If silence really does say a million words, he'll understand. There's a long pause as I count how many V's I've made under my breath: eight. Finally, Smith speaks.

"I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it."

"Ding-ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!" I say sarcastically, looking up at him with a taunting look. It's not until I squint my eyes that I realize I had been crying, a small tear drop rolling halfway down my cheeks before sinking into my pores. I ignore it. Smith laughs.

"You're not like the other patients here." He says.　

"How romantic." I roll my eyes. "Where shall we go for our first date? Chick-fil-A? I hear they have a high tolerance for gay people."

"I'm not gay."

"Wow! Really?" I say with a mocking expression, raising my eyebrows like that's extremely hard to believe.

For that, I earn a laugh from the purple-haired guy, smiling his handsome smile once before folding his hands on the desk. There's a change in his expression; like a certain seriousness had been hinted into the look of slight joy. He clears his throat, brushing his hair from his forehead. Oh no. Here it comes.

"Uh, Chris, listen," he smiles politely, making eye contact. I don't like that. I look away. "I'm going to offer you a once-and-a-life-time opportunity."

I laugh solemnly, tilting my head a bit. "Am I going to eat something other than mashed potatoes and peas for lunch?"

Smith doesn't laugh this time. "You're very sarcastic, did you know that?" He responds with a sort of frustrated look. I don't respond, rubbing three more V's into the carpet.

Smith, for once, seems to be at a loss for words. He gives me a good stare before grabbing my folder again, opening it up and studying the information. "You were nine when you committed the crime?" He asks. I give a little nod.

"Well," he says, "I'd say you're the perfect person for the job."

This sort of catches my curiosity. I look up at the funky business-like man, giving him a thoughtful expression as I think of what to say next. "What job?" I finally ask, squinting my eyes slightly. Smith chuckles and closes the folder. My V-drawing is becoming frantic now. I glare at him, contemplating whether this is a test or a trick or something.

He swivels his chair around, grabbing a navy blue binder from where it was leaning against a potted plant. Opening it, a tiny smirk edges against the corners of his lips. After 32 V's and a lot of glaring, he turns the binder around, revealing a newspaper clipping.

"Sorry for the wait," he begins. "I've seemed to lost this little page.. But here it is." He set the binder down, standing up and smirking as he holds up a little silver key. I stare at it, and then at him, knowing what it is. It's the key to the handcuffs. How did he get it from Anthony?

"How did you...?" I blink, my eyes trained on the freedom presented before me. Before I can study properly, he whips it away into his pocket. My glaring only increases, etching holes into his soul with my eyes.

"Ah, ah, ah." He smirks. "Not just yet. But, little prisoner, if you can do this one thing for me, the key will be all yours and more."

I stare at him for a long time, handcuffs rubbing at my raw wrists, shackles tugging at my ankles, lips stretched into a frown. he's ensnared me. Outsmarted me. But worst of all, he's got me wrapped around his finger. I suck in a deep breath before staring at him dead in the eyes, eye contact and all. "What do I have to do?"

Before I can further assess the situation, Smith is bouncing like a kangaroo, positively excited out of his wits as he shoves the binder toward me like a dog begging for a toy to be thrown. I cry out slightly at the quick locomotive. He might as well start squealing like a teenage girl! What the hell?!

"See this?!" He smiles, tapping his finger repeatedly on one sentence. "This asylum," He raises up his arms, seeming to motion to the entire room, "'Burton's Asylum for the Incurably Insane?"

I don't say anything. He shoots a look at me. "Do you?!"

"Y-Yea!" I say obediently, my eyes widening slightly. This guy is out of his mind... And that's coming from a mental asylum patient.

He continues to tap on the one sentence. "Read this," He says sternly, "Now!"

"Jeez, fine!"

I read the sentences he pointed to, realizing it's highlighted:

"Burton's Asylum for the Incurably Insane; humane or cruel? These are the questions the people of Merkansa have been dying to know. Authorities report the Asylum is strictly under investigation and may be closed down once and for all; that is, if any torturous methods are revealed to 'cure' patients residing within."

I read it twice in my mind, squinting curiously. Wait, what? This insufferable hellhole of an institution could be wiped off the face of the Earth? Fantastic. A small smirk stretches across my cheeks. Smith seems to notice it, because he pulls the binder away from me before I can relish in the joy of memorizing the entire thing.

"Don't get too excited." He says calmly. "You'll be the one helping me keep it up and running."

I glare at him fiercely, my eyes widening with sickening awe as I pull at my restraints. "Are you serious?!" I shout, shaking my head furiously. "Never, ever in my entire life would I EVER dream of keeping this rotten Asylum running if I had the choice!" If I could get up and walk out right now, I would do so sassily. However, I settle for snapping, "You should be the one in handcuffs if you believe that, twinkle toes!"

"Twinkle toes?" he laughs, raising his eyebrows. "Creative use of insult." He really must think he's got this under control, because he folds his hands as gracefully as a swan folds her wings. I sneer furiously, giving him a look of rebellion. I only earn another chuckle as he grabs my chin, smirking.

"You will do what I want. Do you know why?" he asks sweetly. I hold back the urge to spit in his face, glaring hard as I can. When I don't say anything, he goes on.

"Because you've been trapped here for twelve years, hon. Twelve years of therapy you didn't need. All that shocking and choking; that binding and restraint. You haven't seen the light of day in weeks, have you, Chris? Your childhood was wasted on years of harsh treatment. Your parents forgot to visit you, huh? Or maybe they gave up on you. I bet that hurts to know. You're alone in this world. You'll be in this asylum for the rest of your pathetic life." He tilts his head gently, giving me the sweetest look of manipulative sympathy I've ever seen. "There's no one left for you to love; but even worse," He puts his finger to his chin, "there's no one left to love you."

The words come as a slap in the face. His green eyes swim with certainty, my own eyes swimming with fresh tears. He's right. He's absolutely right. Why am I even crying? I've know this for years; most of my life, even. Rotting in this hospital seemed to be my destiny, but now that it's been said, I'm breaking. That bastard.

My voice comes out in a choked, raspy whisper. "So?"

"So," he begins, "you're going to make sure this place doesn't get shut down."

"Why would you want me to do that?" I stay still, staring into his calm eyes. His fingers slip elegantly from my chin, folding into his other palm as he stares at me with a look layered with pity.

"For years," he begins, "Burton's Asylum has been the best people thought there was. Many 'patients' came and went, supposedly cured. It seemed like a miracle to the public, little prisoner. As a result, this place," he rubs his fingers together, "has been the livelihood of greenback, you know what I'm saying?"

I stare at him cluelessly.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, kid! It means this place got really rich, you following?" he rolls his eyes, causing me to nod. I'm two seconds away from screaming. He sighs, continuing his story.

"Now, where were we..? Oh, yes. See, this place didn't get rich because we were honest about everything, following me? Everyone knows that few 'incurably' mental patients ever get cured. I mean, that's why they're 'incurable!' So, naturally, we came up with a way to prove to the people that we were doing our jobs; by hiring people to PRETEND to be insane, so they could come here and get, 'cured.' Eh? Eh? Get it?"

"So, what you're telling me is the reason this hellhole has been here for so long is because you turds were lying?!" My cheeks flush with annoyance, a deep sigh escaping my lips as I glare at the purple-headed hippie to go on. He nods, opening his hands.

"And no one ever found out!" He smiles, but it quickly fades as he points to another highlighted sentence on the newspaper, crossing his arms. "Read that."

I shift my eyes to a paragraph highlighted in blue, squinting to read it. My vision hasn't always been the best, but I can make out the tiny print just barely to make out:

"Christina Baird, a ninety-two year old woman whom had claimed to reside in 'Burton's Asylum for the Incurably Insane,' peacefully died in her sleep on September fourth, but not before she released to the public a bit of shocking news. The noble lady had told her family the truth about her containment twenty years ago at Burton's, stating that she wasn't really crazy at all.  
'She told us that she wanted to die in peace.' Reports Tyler Milsten, a neighbor and close friend of Baird's. Milsten tells reporters that the old woman confessed to being hired to play as a patient in order for the Asylum to look as though they were doing something useful- a shock to everyone that knew her.  
'At first, we thought it was the fact that she was dying, or maybe she was still a little crazy or something.' Milsten claims with a deep frown of sadness as he talks to our reporters. 'But we decided to tell the police, anyway.'  
A good choice, indeed for the family to do. Authorities tell the public that after looking into Christina's Baird's wild suggestions, they found several other former patients who had done the same deed. Reports on who these patients are have stayed hidden from the people, but authorities assure that Merkansa's best are working on the case.

In memory of Christina Baird: 1923-2015."

 

After reading, I glance up at Smith, who looks quite pleased with himself. "So why do you want me to help you so bad? Why not let this place go to waste and find another job?"

"It's not that simple." He says with a scowl, placing his palms flat on the desk as he stares at me. "If they prove that we're up to no good, I could go to jail! I tell ya, kid. I've finally been promoted to manager of this place, and now this. I need to act quick, you following?"

I sigh, relaxing against me chair. "Yea, yea. I'm following. So now what?"

I can feel him smirking again, a ruffling of sleeves sounding as he crosses his arms. "I want you to convince the media that what they believe is baloney."

"Yea, and how do you expect me to do that?" I sneer, mentally crossing my own arms. My shoulders hurt from sitting here so long.

"Easy; it's simple. You, my friend, will start to plan A." He smiles handsomely, flooding with confidence. "On Monday, some cops will be coming to check the place out, along with some photographers. They'll be checking our food, our cells, our patients, pretty much everything."

"And?"

"I want you to get everyone riled up."

"What? Why?"

Smith sighs as though I'm hopelessly stupid. Maybe I am, because I'm not "following" him at all. I squint, shaking my head. I choose not to talk back at him, letting him go on.

"Our first step is to convince the public that we're sanitary. Well, we already are, so that shouldn't be a problem. But what about how we control our patients? What are our methods when things get out of hand? That's half of what the people wanna know. So, your job," He points to me, his mouth a cross between a smirk and a smile, "is to do this."

It takes a whole thirty minutes for him to explain the plan to me. But when he finishes, I'm not quite sure if this guy is out of his mind or a genius. I straighten up, clearing my throat.

"And if I succeed in your little plan, you'll make sure that I'm free from this place forever?" I say slowly, making sure that my side of the trade is clear. He smiles.

"Bingo."

For the first time in what seems to be hours, everything is silent. We trade looks of understanding, his huge, green pools swimming with curiosity, determination, and solitude. I'm not quite sure what mine are swimming with, but it's not tears; if anything, it's awe. Maybe even hope.

He gets up swiftly, pulling out the silver key and shoving it into the handcuff lock. My jaw drops lightly, staring at him in a bit of surprise. "What are you...?" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I'm glad we have a deal." He says, his hand outstretched. "My name is Zeppelin Smith. It's positively fabulous to meet you."


End file.
